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I'm sitting here, clean. Clean and tired. Not able to think of much other than how great it is to be wearing clothes that don't smell like gas fumes, how great it is to have showered and shampooed and to have put on clean clothes. Comfy clothes. As if I wear any other kind. Soon, I will need to start planning my life based on where yoga pants and T-shirts are considered appropriate attire. Someplace, of course, other than a yoga studio, because God forbid. I am the opposite of flexible. Sitting on the floor, Indian-style, as we used to call it as kids, is about as bendy as I get. And even then, only on good days.

So I'm sitting here, clean. And tired. With the notion buzzing around in my sinuses, not in my brain, that I should be writing something of substance. The sinus thing is a might bit distressing. I think I've spent too much time in nature over the past two days. There are two likely scenarios at hand:

1) I need some Benadryl.

2) I inhaled some fungus spores yesterday when I was disposing, once and for all, of the giant mushroom that bubbled out of my lawn last year, that swelled to the size of a volleyball before it started to shrink, which I left in place all winter figuring that the weather would do away with it, only to find it still on my lawn when the snow retreated, only now it had become sad and withered and brown. And it made its way from its location in the lawn to one of the beds in the front of my house, and then made its way to the other (helped along, I'm guessing, by neighborhood cats), until yesterday, when I was finally doing away with my dandelion-stem garden, and there it was, as if stubbornly saying that it was never going to entirely go away, so I impaled it on my weeder and carried it to the trash.

(I have to pause here to confess that the immaturity of a 13-year-old boy that I have inside of me is sniggering at the phrase "impaled it on my weeder." And now that sniggering has given way to full-on laughter.)

But as I was saying, I probably inhaled some sort of spores which are now wreaking all sorts of havoc in my lungs, and which will no doubt inspire an animation next season on "House," mostly likely starring the little green Mucinex dude, whom, I just learned, through the power of the Internet, is named Mr. Mucus.

Well, at least he reads. I wonder if he's single.

I am also sore from these two days of yard work, which further compels me to hire a hunky lawnboy to do the mowing and the weeding and the twig-picking-upping. Or I need to buy stock in Advil.

For the moment, though, I do believe that the most prudent and immediate course of action is to take a nap. Just a wee one. Twenty minutes or so.

Or to brew some afternoon coffee. But that would require getting off the couch.